Cujo, Talk to the Hoof

One of the highlights of Summer these days is the camping trips that I take on horseback. Each year, my friend Derek and I go will painstakingly plan a trip, haul our horses to some remote trailhead, and then vanish into the backcountry for three or four days. We carry only what we can fit in our saddlebags. Thusly:


Due to modern lightweight gear designed for backpackers, we are able to carry a few luxuries that were not available to the cowboys of lore. Most important amongst this gear, IMHO, is the one man tent, weighing in at a paltry 2.5 pounds. While it is akin to sleeping in a coffin, it is preferable to sleeping out in the rain. And since the weather guessers in this region are frequently wrong, we have encounterd rain on this trips.

This tale concerns a trip that was taken two summers ago, in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest, an area that we had traveled before. On the second night, we set out to reach Fryingpan Lake. This is a beautiful lake, with lush green grass for the horses to graze upon, and excellent spots for setting up camp and high lining the horses.

The weather was perfect. We arrived at the lake in the early afternoon. Upon stopping to pitch camp, the first order of business is always to tend to the needs of the horses. We unsaddled and led them down to the lake. After they had drunk their fill, we hobbled them, hung a bells on thier necks (so as not to lose them!) and turned them out in the grass to eat to their hearts content.


Once the horses were settled, we pitched camp, and collected firewood. The rest of the day and evening were uneventful. This fishing was unproductive, although at least we didn't leave the worms in the trailer, as we had the year before.

After a tasty meal comprised of freeze dried Mountain House meals, and more than a few snorts of sippin whiskey, we elected to call it a night. After watering the horses one last time, and tying them up to the highline, we turned in to our respective tents, fully ready for a good nights sleep.

Around midnight, I was awakened from my slumber by a yelping noise. A lot of yelping noise. Of the kind that can only be made by members of the canine family. And it was CLOSE! From the next tent over, I heard "what the f**k?", and the horses stamping around. Coming fully awake, the situation hit me. They were being attacked! I had to get out and help them!

I challenge you to unzip a mummy bag and get out of a one man tent in a hurry. Especially when your adrenalin has kicked into overdrive. It seemed an eternity before my hand settled on the zipper pull. And of course, it was stuck. After much tugging and swearing, it finally unzipped. The next challenge was finding the tent zipper and getting it open. Another eternity passed before this was accomplished. Finally, I was free, and, flying out of the tent, I jumped into my boots, grabbed my .357 and a flashlight, and ran for toward the horses. Derek and I arrived at the highline simultaneously.

Now, it's midnight in the middle of nowhere, and here are two grown men dressed in nothing but skivvies and cowboy boots, each armed with a revolver, and ready to shoot anything that isn't horse or each other. Like a scene out of bad movie.

By this time the commotion had ended. There was no sign of intruders, but the horses were riled up and shaking. Using flashlights, we looked them over closely. They weren't hurt, only shaken up. Staying nearby to calm them, we discussed the events that had transpired. Coyotes? It seemed unlikely, but since the goverment hacks that are supposed to know these things tell us that wolves don't live in Washington anymore, it was the only logical conclusion.

Once the horses had settled down, we went back to bed. It took longer for sleep to arive this time around, but the rest of the night was peaceful.

That morning, we looked the horses over again before turning them out to eat, to ensure we had not missed any injuries. I discovered dried blood on one of Smokey's hind legs. Damn, was he hurt? Looking closer, I could find absolutely no sign of injury. This was not his blood. I called Derek over to confirm that I was not imagining things. He verified my observation. Obviously, Ol' Boy had decided to show one of those dogs exactly what he thought of having his slumber disturbed by their yammering. Score one for Smokey!

The rest of the trip passed uneventfully. We did head back to the trailer a day early, as thunderstorms started to roll in. The weather had been cooperative up to this point, and neither of us could imagine ending it by staying up all night in a thundering downpour while trying to keep the horses calm.

Of course, their was the minor problem of the alternator going out on the trip home. But that's a story for another day...



POSTSCRIPT: A month or two after this event, I was discussing it with some old timers that have been packing in on horses in those mountains longer than I've been walking on this earth. They were emphatic that it was wolves, not coyotes. They have seen wolves in those mountains on numerous occassions, and, they pointed out, coyotes don't live at that altitude (5000 ft) in this state. I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions.

Cat Herding

Our friends have a number of barn cats. And two, possibly three of the said barn cats are with kitten(s). Seems the appointment for spaying wasn't scheduled prior to the arrival of a stray tom, who apparently had his way with a number of the feline ladies.

I'm trying to convince them that we could put our horses to a new use:

Update on Ellie

The vet stopped by to check on Ellie this afternoon. Changed the bandage, and cleaned the wound out. The fluid that is draining from the site is burning her lower leg, which caused some swelling. That was cleaned too, and is something we will have to do everyday until it stops draining.

It's going to be a long road to recovery, with plenty of stall rest. Which is too bad, as she is very barn sour. She is a beautiful horse, but her manners are atrocious, and being kept in a stall won't help that.

Thank you for all your kind thoughts.

"Horses Are Born To Commit Suicide"

I read that once. Although, for the life of me, I cannot remember where.

No, we didn't have any horses commit suicide today. But it certainly wasn't for lack of effort.

In this post, I introduced Ellie, the newest member of our equine family. Three days after her arrival, she managed to injure the deep digital flexor tendon in her left hind leg. This has required stall rest, and wraps on her hind legs, as seen in this picture:


Over the past two weeks the leg has shown significant improvement. Her behavior, on the other hand, left room for improvement. She was getting very barn sour. The weather was beautiful today, making it an ideal time to turn to turn her out so she could stretch her legs. We put her in a paddock next to Dozer, our rascally Paint gelding. Dozer wasn't gelded until he was nearly four years old, which is a bit late, and he clearly never got the memo that that his testicles were taken away by a veterinarian. As soon as Ellie arrived, he perked right up, his face clearly saying "Hey, Baby". She went over to him, they nosed each other briefly, and then young man gave her a "love bite" on the shoulder. This did not go over well. Ellie turned her ass on him, and fired both barrels.

This is when things went horribly wrong. The paddocks are separated by two strands of electric fence (thankfully it was turned off today). When her legs came down, they were on the wrong side of the fence. When she went to walk away, she discovered she was trapped.

A horse that feels trapped reverts to instant flight mode. Ten alarm panic. They will struggle to get out of the situation regardless of self inflicted injury. She struggled against the wire until it broke free, then ran. Mrs. BR ran into the paddock, got a lead rope on her, and calmed her down. Then we saw the injury.


It's difficult to discern from the above picture, but in the center is the common digital extensor tendon, at the joint, on the left hindlimb. Fortunately, the tendon was not injured, which would have compounded the problem immensely. We contacted our vet, who was willing to make an emergency farm call.

In order to stitch the injury, it was necessary to anesthetize her, and lay her down. The use of anesthesia in horses is a risky venture. As I understand it, the equine nervous system is poorly understood, and while most horses recover without any effect, some experience respiratory and/or cardiac arrest, and die. Needless to say, it's a bit nerve wracking, albeit necessary.

The vet injected her with the anesthetic. She slowly became drowsy, and then went down. Despite the best efforts to guide her down, she ended up on the wrong side.



This, of course, required two of us to grab her legs, and roll her over, whilst a third person guided her head. A friend helped me turn her, and in a moment of comic relief, he said "they always call me to turn the drunk girls over." Everyone laughed, which helped break the tension. Then the vet set to work sewing up the injury.


Her remained half open, and we were constantly watching for the next inhalation. It was always a huge relief to see her ribcage expand and her nostrils flare. Tell me she doesn't look dead.


Finally, the wound was sewn up.


We all cleared out, and waited for her to wake up. After what seemed an eternity, she suddenly raised her head, and looked around. She then struggled to her feet, resting in this position for about a minute.


Finally, she was up on all fours, albeit a tad woozy.


In order to prevent infection, she required an injection of penicillin, which, unfortunately, the vet did not have on hand in the van. I followed him up to his clinic, where he provided me with two syringes, each filled with 25cc of penicillin, one for today, the next on Wednesday. Upon returning, I waste little time administering the injection, preferring to do so whilst she was still under the influence.


When giving an injection of this size, it is necessary to inject approximately half of the quantity, then pull the needle halfway out, and reposition it. Fortunately, their are no nerves in the muscle tissue, so the horse does not feel this. The shot went off without a hitch.

She's going to be on stall rest for quite a while. The inury looks far worse than it is, although being right at the joint will complicate the healing somewhat. She is now up and moving around, favoring the injured leg only slightly. I will keep you posted on her recovery.

Introducing Smokey

Shortly before my retirement from Uncle Sam's Navy, the family BR trekked to Yakima to visit the Cowboy-in-law. While there, he took Mrs. BR and DN2 on a horseback ride in the hills behind his farm. I, on the other hand, went to KFC and picked up dinner. At some point in the dinner conversation, he mentioned that if Mrs. BR wanted to start riding again, he would gladly donate one of his horses. That seemed to be the end of it.

Now, I knew full well that Mrs. BR was an avid rider as kid. However, up to this point, I had not one inkling that this passion was merely dormant, as opposed to extinct. Imagine, if you will, my surprise when one day in May, 2005, the Cowboy-in-Law shows up with a horse trailer containing a retired team roping horse named Blue Boy, which he promptly deposits, and then drives off.

Mrs. BR, DN2, & DN3 threw themselves into this new activity with a passion. I would occasionally go out and watch them, but, truth be told, at this point I was fairly unenthused, and left them to their own devices.

Several months later, Mrs. BR purchased a mare named Taylor (a story for another day). The herd was growing. I was still decidedly uninterested in these rather large hay burners.

Quite honestly, I am unable to recall the moment or the reason that interest in horses took hold of me. I don't know if it was a "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" situation or what. Just suffice it to say, that by the Fall of that same year, I was on the search for a horse to call my own. With no real knowledge to speak of, and utterly uncertain of what I was looking for, the search got off to a rather difficult start.

Then I came across an advertisement containing this picture:


I wanted that horse. No questions asked. There was just one minor kink in the plan. His price tag was just a bit too steep for my wallet. Back to the search.

But, wait!!! Via a little bird, I learned that the asking price had been lowered. Within my budget to boot. Salvation.

Long story short, within days I was the proud owner of a 16 year old Appendix Quarter Horse, with the registered name of Master Alamo Joe, aka Smokey.

This picture was taken two days before I signed papers:


What a sad sack he was, apparently. Although I don't recall him looking this bad. I just remember that in my eyes, he was the perfect horse. An opinion that hasn't changed in the ensuing 4 years.

This is Smokey two days ago:



More on Old Joe in the next post.

About the Light (read: non-existent) Blogging

Just wanted to drop everyone a quick note about about the lack of blogging during the last week. I haven't given up. Work is just keeping me busier than a one legged man in an ass kicking contest, and I've been to pooped to write by the time I get home.

I should be back at it later this week, to regale you with tales of old Smokey Joe and his friends.

Hope everyone had a good Easter!

A Girl and Her Horse

If you haven't heard any music by Carbon Leaf, you really should.

As 3 out of 4 lady denizens of Che Buckskin are cowgirls, I find this song by the band to be rather apropos:

Tragedy Strikes, Part Duh...

Monday night I set out to program the coffee maker such that I would have fresh brew upon arising from bed at oh-dark-thirty.

A quick glance revealed that something was amiss. There was no clock display. I verified that it was plugged in, and attempted to turn it on. No response. I made certain that the GFI was not tripped. Pushing down the knob on the toaster, which was plugged into the same outlet, quickly yielded glowing coils of heat. That ruled out a tripped breaker.

Growing desperate, I moved it to another outlet. Still dead. Saddened, I accepted the grim reality that there would be no coffee for me Tuesday morning, short of spending $3 at a latte stand, where the closest thing they have to coffee is something called an Americano, which tastes to me like diluted coffee.

Tuesday morning was rather grim.

Tuesday night, I happened to peer at the aforementioned coffee maker while I was in the kitchen. The clock was on. I quickly turned the knob to the on position. The red light was now illuminated. Salvation!!

Needless to say, I enjoyed a warm cup of joe during my morning commute. All was again right with the world.

I have no idea what was wrong on Monday night/Tuesday morning. Do appliances take vacations?

Tragedy Strikes!!

My coffee maker is on the fritz!!

Not good...

One In, One Out

After 3 years of playing Show Mom to DN2 & DN3, Mrs. BR decided that she would like to enter the amateur horse show circuit herself. She enjoys showing, and does not want to become one of those Mother's who suddenly has no purpose in life when the children are grown. After all, the youngest is 15, so we aren't that far out.

The type of showing she has chosen is called Western Pleasure. After two months at the trainers, it became apparent that her horse, Brenna, is not a Western Pleasure Horse. She is fabulous horse, as can be seen in this picture:


What you probably can't tell from the picture is that she is very tall, 16.1HH (HH= hands. 1HH = 4 inches, therefore she is 65" tall at the withers). Her long legs give her rather fast gaits, which is not suitable for the slower gaits required in Western Pleasure. While it may be possible to slow her down, it actually may not be good for legs. Just like humans, individual horses are built differently, physically as well as mentally. Therefore, individual horses are not always suited to do all things.

Last Sunday, Mrs. BR, her trainer, a friend, and the horse trailer drove to Battleground, WA, to see this horse:


Needless to say, she did not tow an empty trailer home. Her name is Ellie, and she is an American Paint Horse. She's five, and apparently already quite accomplished in the Western Pleasure circuit. She is on a one year free care lease, with the option to buy at any time. Free care lease means that we are responsible for all the care and costs, without ownership. This is actually good in this case, as it gives Mrs. BR a year to determine if this is the right horse for her. If, at any time, she feels that Ellie is not the perfect horse, she can return her with no penalty.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, we are trying to trim the herd, not grow it, so selling Brenna became a bit more urgent, which is not necessarily a good prospect in these trying economic times. But, fate smiled down upon us. The original owner, the breeder, wanted her back. We took a bit of a loss on her, but with few interested customers in the last month, the amount of loss would only have grown the longer we kept her. And this, of course, satisfied our requirement that the horse go to a good, safe home.

Thus, one in, one out. Equilibrium maintained.

I'm Not Going to be Very Popular

Kenya is no longer a part of our horse family. There. I said it.

Before I explain what led to this turn of events, I will tell you that she is at a good home. I gave her to my farrier, with full disclosure. When he heard that we were seeking a new home for her, he called immediately. He's young, and a very good hand with horses. He is more than up to the challenge she presents, and, most importantly to me, will take good care of her. I will never let a horse leave my care without 100% certainty that he or she is going to a safe place.

The decision was based as much on economics as it was on my personal safety. Over the course of the week, the other denizens of Che Buckskin expressed their misgivings with my bullheadedness at wanting to continue. They were more than a little concerned that I would end up dead, or worse, paralyzed.

As the week progressed, I began to think more rationally. Smarter people than me pointed out that I don't have the experience to tackle a problem of this nature. As I sit here, still nursing the physical pain from her attempts to use me as a lawn dart, I acquiesce to the reality of the situation. This is a hobby. I do not make a living from my horses. At no time is it worth placing myself or a horse at risk of severe injury or death.

One can almost hear the collective sigh of relief from my family and friends. I can be a bit stubborn and single minded at times, as well as a bit loathe to give up, even when the battle is clearly lost.

Economically, the need to trim the herd has been present since the Fall. To properly care for and feed a horse is not inexpensive. I won't bore you with a detailed breakdown of the expenses, but suffice to say that having five is even harder on the bank account.

This was not an easy decision, but I am surprisingly at peace with it. I still have my gelding Smokey. Riding him is akin to putting on an old pair of jeans. Comfortable, and a great fit. I haven't blogged much regarding Old Joe, yet. He's been my #1 horse buddy for over 3 years now, and there are plenty of tales where he is concerned.

I want to thank all of you for the support you have shown me while I tried my hand at this endeavor. I hope that you won't think any less of me, but if you do, I understand.

Video from the First Ride

As promised (finally), here is 2:42 worth of the video, which is fairly representative of the ride.

Sadly, depending on your point of view, neither of my "rodeos" has been captured on film. If it should happen to pass that one is, I will of course post it.

Crossroads Part II

I've had a night to sleep on it. My left shoulder and hip are mighty sore today, but hey, pain lets us know we are alive, right?

I'm not one to cut and run at the first sign of trouble. But I also realize that to do the same thing repeatedly, while expecting different results, defines stupidity.

To assess this problem, I first need to assess what I am doing wrong. It's a rather long list, but if we don't make mistakes we don't learn.

1. Lack of consistency. I can't ride her on Sunday, Wed, and Saturday. I have to ride daily, least five to six times per week, at least one hour per session. I've allowed the other demands of life to interfere. A horse being started for the first time needs constant repetition.

2. My riding skills are rusty. I have not ridden Smokey very much this this winter. I could offer a list of excuses, but they are just that, excuses. While I have never been aboard a horse that reared, I have ridden horses through bucking sessions, and have never ended up in the dirt before. I should have been prepared and able to deal with both of her bad behaviors.

I am going to step back, and return to square one. I am going to ride Smokey at least five days per week, to polish my riding skills. I am going to return to ground work with Kenya, 5 to 6 days per week, until that area is finely honed.

The trainer I talked with is going to help me with a technique known as Ground Driving. I'm not real familiar with it, beyond knowing that it is part of the technique used to teach horses that will pull wagons. Apparently, in this case, it can be used to find out if rearing his her natural response, and if so, to possibly train it out of her.

That's where things stand for now. I'll keep you all posted.

Here's a video I found of Ground Driving:

Crossroads Part I

I ate dirt twice today. But not because I was bucked off.

Kenya reared twice. And I don't mean that she just popped up a little in the front. I'm talking Hi Ho Silver. The whole event, from first rear, to second time in the dirt, elapsed over less than 2 minutes. I got back up on her both times, although the second time took some strong encouragement from Mrs. BR. I'm not ashamed to admit that I was scared to get on her the second time. I'm 43, and have long since entered that phase of life where I am aware of my own mortality. I'm not in a rush to reach the hereafter.

Rearing is DANGEROUS. No other word describes it. While it may look cute to see a Silver rearing with Roy Rogers aboard, that was a horse and rider who were trained to do it in a safe manner. In all other instances, there is a high risk of severe injury to the horse or rider, due to the horse flipping over backwards. Riders have been killed from this.

Why did she rear? I'm not entirely sure. In both instance, she reared immediately after I applied leg pressure, the cue to move forward. This was not new to her, and had always yielded the desired result, before today.

The first time I think was out of fear, although of what I do not know. I'm inclined to think that the second time was a result of her discovery that she could get rid of me by doing so.

I cannot say that I am entirely surprised by this behavior. In the past she has show a tendency to be a bit light in the front end, rearing up at things that scare her. If this is her initial reaction to fear, what happens if I am 50 miles out in the backcountry, something scares her, she rears, and throws me onto a rock, or off a cliff?

The problem is this: once a horse develops a habit of rearing, it is difficult, if not impossible to train this out of them. That's not just my personal opinion. I talked with a professional trainer, and also with my father-in-law, who is Old School Cowboy, and has been riding and training horses for over 60 years. The consensus seems to be: This can get me seriously injured, if not killed, and there are too many good horses out there to spend time on a dangerous one.

This causes me great pain. I really like this horse, and I do not want to be one of those people who cuts and runs at the first sign of trouble. However, it would irresponsible to knowingly place myself in such danger, particularly with a family who depends on me.

I have not decided the outcome of this, yet. I did feel that my readers deserve to know that things are currently amiss. I will let you all know more, when I know more.

Friday Night Music

Andy's post with the music form The Gaslight Anthem inspired me.

Here's a song I have always liked, for no particular reason.



Yea, I'm lame. Sitting home on Friday night.

How's a Guy Supposed to Surf the Internet...

...when he has to contend with this?


Darn varmint, anyways!

Visit from the Farrier

A horse's hoof is, IMHO, the most complicated part of there anatomy. Proper and regular hoof care is one of the key ingredients to maintaining a healthy horse. Click here to see some excellent pictures of hooves from cadavers.

The person tasked with caring for the hoof is known as a farrier. They are so titled because their work and skills go far beyond just simple shoeing. They must have a firm knowledge of the inner working of the hoof. The hoof is prone to any number of ailments and diseases, therefore a farrier must be skilled in diagnosing and correcting these problems. Proper trimming and shoeing goes a long way towards preventing these problems.

A farrier must be willing to work when the weather is cold, or when it is hot. They may occasionally be called for an emergency on the weekend or at night. They spend most of the day bent over, and are constantly at risk of being kicked by a horse. A good farrier accepts all of these as hazards of the trade, and will most likely develop a very loyal clientele.

Our farrier is a young man named Jacob. He is 22, and has been caring for our horses feet for about a year now. He is the most talented farrier we have come in contact with. He is patient, and makes a detailed assessment of the horse's feet before starting his work.

Today Bailey, Smokey, and Kenya were his customers. Bailey was well behaved as always, getting a new set of shoes. Kenya only received a trim. I won't start shoeing her until I am ready to ride her out on the trail. Going barefoot in the soft dirt of the arena should not cause her any problems.

One of Kenya's feet, post trim


Using my hand as a size reference, compare to Smokey's foot, below.


Following her trim, I tied her to the rail in the barn. This was intended to give her practice at standing quietly and patiently while tied. This decision, of course, provided the only brief excitement of the night.

While Smokey was getting his shoes reset (re-using the old shoes, as they were not excessively worn), someone leaned a shovel on a post near Kenya. Horses being naturally curious, and prone to finding trouble, she managed to knock it over. CLANG!!! Trying desperately to get away from this horse eating monster, she backed up pulling for all she was worth on her lead rope. I dropped Smokey's lead rope, got her attention, calmed her, and moved said shovel. The incident was soon forgotten (their memory is only about 3 seconds long), and she stood calmly after that.

Shoeing Smokey in the wet winter months is a little more involved than the average horse. His sire is a Thoroughbred. One of the by-products of this is the fact that his feet are a) BIG, and b) his soles get really soft when they are constantly wet from the rain inherent to the Pacific Northwest. This softening makes him prone to abscesses of the hoof, which are rather painful for the horse.

To combat this, a pad is placed between his foot and the shoe. It is packed with a compound known simply as hoof packing, to prevent the area from becoming a breeding ground for any bacteria. The finished product looks thus:


The black goo coming out from the back of the pad is the aforementioned hoof packing.

After Smokey's feet were done, I returned the Two Buckskins to there paddocks, where fresh grain and alfalfa awaited them.

Ride Number Three...

...was not nearly as eventful as the second ride. And for this I am thankful.

We did have one minor bucking episode, but I was not about to eat dirt a second time. She helped out by not bucking as hard as last time, although I'm fairly certain that, given enough time, we'd have been going for the 8 second bell. Without delay I reached down, grabbed the left rein close to her head, and pulled.

As soon as I had her nose on the fender of the saddle, she stopped. I released her, and sat up straight to assess the situation. My hat was on the ground, and my forehead felt as though I'd been smacked, but that was the worst of it. For the life of me I cannot recall what whacked my noggin.

Without ceremony I started her moving again. She kept looking at my hat as though it might be a horse eater, so I dismounted, shook off the dust, donned it, and climbed back in the saddle.

In retrospect, the mistake I think I made was failing to keep my hands moving, touching her neck, the saddle, and her hip in repetition. This keeps a young horse cognizant of the fact that the rider is up there. I realize now that I forgot to do that, and it's possible that she forgot I was there, and then got spooked when she subsequently noticed me. I'll chalk it up to another part of the learning process.

The rest of the ride was uneventful, and I am again happy with the results. I do have the video form the first ride, and as soon as I have time to edit and upload it, I will get it posted.

Submarine Involved Collision

As a retired submariner, it pains me to hear of this.

Initial reports are that while 15 sailors aboard the USS Hartford were injured, none of the injuries were serious. If that is the case, then that is the silver lining in the clouds.

Seems like there has been a significant increase in the last few years in the number of submarines involved in collisions of one sort or the other.

Keep these guys in your prayers, if you do that sort of thing.

I Do My Own Stunts...

Yep, I got bucked off tonight...but, let us go back to the beginning.

I saddled Kenya up, and went through the usual round penning exercises. Before long I was in the saddle. I was working without a helper today, making the transition to taking cues from the rider. At The sequence of events to motivate the horse forward is as follows: Apply leg pressure, by squeezing the horse's sides with the calves, cluck, and then pop her on the rump with the leather popper on the end of the reins. Within minutes, she was moving off at a walk from leg pressure and the cluck. Satisfied with this, I felt that it was time to proceed to the trot. So, at the walk, squeeze, cluck, spank...bucking.

Bucking???? I don't remember that being part of the video!

According to those who witnessed the event, her skills as a bucking horse are very respectable. All four feet off the ground, back legs nearly vertical as they reached skyward. From my vantage point, I suddenly found myself looking at the ground underneath Kenya's head. This alternated with views form the horizontal, for what seemed an eternity. I tried to pull her head around, but I was completely unseated by this time, and having difficulty getting any leverage.

The whole event took perhaps five seconds to unfold, but from my viewpoint seemed like five minutes. Oddly enough I was calm through all of this. Those watching told me that I never uttered a sound. At first I was confident that I would recover, and all would be well. After the third time looking facing the dirt, I was well over her neck. It was at this point that I came to the realization that I was no longer sitting in a saddle, but, rather, and ejection seat.

Now I'm in the air, ass over tea kettle. Performing the age old "tuck and roll", I landed with a thud, ending up on my back. Not knowing where Kenya was, I immediately leapt to my feet. She was now standing calmly. I had to walk it off, but I knew at this point was that it was absolutely imperative that I get back on her. I calmly walked up to her, and got back in the saddle. I proceeded to walk and trot without further difficulty, even using the popper. I did have Mrs. BR come in and assist me with some of the maneuvers that she wasn't responding to as well as I'd like.

After about another 20 minutes, we called it a night. Despite getting bucked off, I chalked this up as a successful ride.

Mrs. BR told me that she was glad that "you didn't scream like a girl". I'm not quite sure how to take that.

I'm going to be really sore, tomorrow.